


The Party

by bakerstreetsunrise



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidental Arm Cuddling, Dancing, First Kiss, Fluff, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:42:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23431864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bakerstreetsunrise/pseuds/bakerstreetsunrise
Summary: Scotland Yard is throwing Sherlock a party to celebrate the one hundredth crime he solved for them. Sherlock wants no part of it.(Adorable dance lessons and love confessions ensue.)
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 107





	The Party

“Really, John, you’re wasting your energy.”

John gave Sherlock a pointed look, raising an expectant eyebrow at him. 

“Seriously,” Sherlock continued, “there isn’t a single thing you can do. I’m not going, that is a fact, that is the truth, and there is no way you can convince me otherwise.” 

The appalling event John had been trying to convince Sherlock he ought to attend was a party hosted by Scotland Yard to congratulate Sherlock on solving his one hundredth case. To Sherlock, the whole thing seemed ridiculous. His “spectacular” one hundredth case was nothing more than a six on his scale—it was the boyfriend who was pining it on the victim’s deranged brother the whole time, obviously—so it was hardly worth celebrating. He’d solved much more difficult cases over the years and none of them merited a party. So, why now? Besides, he couldn’t stand the thought of being anywhere near Anderson without the excitement of a murder to distract him. 

“Sherlock, you listen to me.” John said calmly, clearly gathering up every ounce of energy not to lose his patience. “It was very considerate of Greg and everyone to go through the trouble of arranging this party. They really appreciate the work you’ve been doing for them over the years, so would it kill you to show up at a party that they’ve arranged just for you?”

“Yes,” Sherlock mumbled as he brought his cup of tea to his lips. 

“Sherlock,” John breathed in exasperation.

“Yes?” Sherlock replied, feigning a distracted innocence.

“You’re a complete arse, you know that?” John huffed as he plopped down in his chair, busying himself with the newspaper. 

Then, after a minute of uncomfortable silence accompanied by John’s restless flicking through the newspaper’s pages, he spoke up again. “Would you at least tell me why?”

“No,” Sherlock said quickly, not missing a beat. 

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to.”

“Ah, so you must have a reason then.”

“Of course I have a reason. People rarely decline going to events without having a reason.”

“Fine.” John said after a moment. “Don’t tell me. See if I care.” And with those words, he stomped off to his room.

***

Early the next morning, John brought it up again over breakfast. “I’ll give you five quid if you can give me a respectable excuse not to go to this party.”

“No,” Sherlock said immediately. 

“No? Well, how about ten quid?”

“John, I refuse to bargain with you about something so pointless.”

“Pointless? I just want to know why you are outright refusing to go to this party.”

“I already told you, I’m not going and that is final. It shouldn’t matter why I refuse.”

John let out a sigh as he went back to his breakfast.

***

_So? Is he coming? GL_

_As of now, no. But I haven't given up yet. JW_

_Well, you better not. We went through the trouble of ordering up a cake shaped like a magnifying glass and everything. GL_

_That sounds amazing. JW_

_So, why doesn't he want to come? GL_

_You see, that's what's bothering me the most. He won't tell me! JW_

_Really? That's strange. If you could find out what's bothering him so much about it then maybe we could find a way to work around it. GL_

_I know. But getting him to talk about it is a lot harder than it sounds. JW_

_Look, this severely overpriced magnifying glass cake is not going to waste. He is coming, John. And I am trusting you to convince him. GL_

_Okay, I'll do what I can. Desperate times call for desperate measures. JW_

_Damn right, they do. GL_

***

Sherlock had been in the middle of a very precarious experiment involving severed fingers and corn starch when John walked into the kitchen, disrupting his spell of concentration. John idled behind him for a moment, opening and closing cupboard doors, wiping off the counter top, acting utterly suspicious. When John began to wipe off the kitchen table, dangerously close to Sherlock's tub of fingers, he decided it was time to speak up. 

"John, do you have to do that now?" Sherlock said quickly with a clipping annoyance.

"Uh, yes, I do, actually." John said, continuing to scrub the opposite end of the table.

"And why, might I ask, do you have to do that now?"

"I'm so bloody tempted not to tell you why but I suppose you have the right to know. We're having company over for dinner." John exclaimed with far too much delight for Sherlock's liking.

"Why is that necessary?"

"Well, it's been quite a while since Mycroft's been by the flat and I thought—"

"Mycroft?! You invited Mycroft over for dinner?!" Sherlock dropped everything to give John his full attention, flashing him a look mixed with horror and annoyance.

"Yes, I did. Actually, well, I'm planning to but I haven't sent him the message yet. That's because I have a deal for you, Sherlock. If you agree to come to this party, that all of Scotland Yard has so humbly arranged in your favour, then I will delete this message and you will not have to put up with your brother tonight. But if you refuse to come," John paused, digging out his phone from his pocket and lifting it in front of Sherlock to show him the message that was ready to be sent to his brother, "then I will be hitting _send_ ".

"No, no, no," Sherlock let the word quietly fall from his mouth in disbelief as he skimmed over the message John was threatening to send. "No, absolutely not."

"You have to choose, Sherlock. What will it be? An awesome party...or Mycroft?"

Sherlock waited a moment before responding, going through the options John was presenting him with. "If I choose to have Mycroft over for dinner," he began with a hint of distaste in his tone, "could we possibly invite him over another evening when I have more time to prepare, possibly even enough time to go through a whole box of nicotine patches?"

"Nope," John replied happily. "Either tonight or not at all."

"Not at all sure sounds like a good option." Sherlock muttered.

"So, does that mean you'll be going to the party?"

"Absolutely not. I already told you there's no way that's happening."

"Alright, I'm clicking _send_ , then." John's thumb hovered over the button as he waited for a confirmation from Sherlock.

"You wouldn't."

"I would."

"You won't"

"I will."

And with those words, John's thumb twitched less than a centimeter closer to the _send_ button, but it was enough to send Sherlock into total panic mode.

"Wait! Stop, seriously, stop!" Sherlock watched as John paused his motion to send the message and looked up at him. Sherlock closed his eyes, letting out a small wavering breath before everything came out in one big, unplanned clump of a confession. "I can't go to this party because I have never been to a party. Not once. Let alone, a party that has been held in my honour. Frankly, I don't know what the word 'party' even entails. Dancing? Drinking? Eating? Singing? Talking? Touching? Who knows! I wouldn't know! The great Sherlock Holmes—the world's only consulting detective and the world's only man who has never been to any sort of party in his whole bloody life!"

Sherlock collapsed on the couch behind him in a dramatic huff, covering his eyes with his hands, refusing to meet John's gaze. He knew what he would find there if he did. Disbelief at first, then a hint of ridicule, judgement, and maybe even disgust. He knew John wasn't the type to act that way but seriously, what grown man in his admittedly late thirties has never been to a party before? He deserved to be ridiculed.

"Never?" John echoed in small, calm voice. "You have never been to a party before?"

_Ah, yes, first comes disbelief_ , thought Sherlock. 

"Never," he confirmed.

"Not even, like, birthday parties when you were a kid?"

"No, my family was never big on birthdays. We never hosted parties to celebrate them and, come to think of it, we rarely even acknowledged each other's birthdays."

Sherlock risked a glance up at John who had remained completely still since the beginning of Sherlock's outburst. What he found when his eye's caught John's face was completely uncalled for. He was expecting the disbelief, of course, but he had been anticipating a fit of laughter to come next. The thought of anyone his age never attending a party of any sort sounded absolutely ludicrous. But John wasn't laughing. He wasn't ridiculing him or making fun of him in any way. His features were portraying an emotion Sherlock could only describe as concerned.

Wordlessly, John took a seat on the couch next to Sherlock, held his gaze for a moment and then slowly, carefully reached out his arms to pull Sherlock towards him. John's arms were sturdy and warm as they wrapped around Sherlock's shoulders and crossed over at his back. Stunned, Sherlock kept his arms tucked at his side. John was...hugging him? That certainly wasn't mentioned in his personal list of predictions. He let himself relax into the embrace, still unsure, but giving into the warmth John was offering. If he was being honest with himself, it was quite nice. He raised one arm and used his hand to cup the back of John's shoulder, pulling him closer. 

After a moment, John pulled back a bit, suddenly looking very serious as his eyes locked onto Sherlock's. "I don't care if your parents were big on birthdays or not, a kid deserves a birthday party." 

Sherlock smiled sadly for a second, all of the terrible recollections of his childhood suddenly floating back to him: all the missed birthdays piling up and piling up until Sherlock had given up and abandoned the idea of even acknowledging his own birthday. He had pushed away these thoughts for so long, tucked them into one of the deepest chambers of his Mind Palace, and now it was all coming back to him. 

“Hey,” John said reassuringly. “It’s alright. Anything you want to talk about?”

Sherlock snapped himself out of it with a quick shake of his head.

“No, no that’s fine, thank you,” then, not wanting to sound too curt, he added, “Really, John. Thank you.”

John gave him a little smile, the kind of adorable little quirk of his lip that sent Sherlock’s heartbeat skyrocketing. Sherlock lost himself in returning the smile. 

“Alright,” said John, standing up, breaking the spell. “So, let me get this straight: you don’t want to go to this party because you have no experience going to parties and you don’t know what to expect?”

“Yes, as a simplified summary, I suppose that would do it justice.”

John rolled his eyes and continued. “Okay, so what if I just let you know what to expect, what to look out for. You know, parties really aren’t that complicated.”

“I wasn’t suggesting that they were.” Sherlock protested lightly. 

“Alright, well, you’re an intelligent man, you’ll catch on quickly so I’m not too worried. What do you want to know?”

Sherlock stood up too, taking a few paces across the room to lean against the fireplace. 

“How do they start?” he ventured with a vague wave of his hand.

“Uh, it depends on the party, I suppose. Usually by socializing with people, catching up before the real fun starts, grabbing a drink or two.”

“And then?”

“Sometimes there’s food, or snacks at the very least. In our case, Greg has invested in a superb cake. For birthday parties, this would be the time you sing _Happy Birthday_ and for other gatherings it could be a time for a speech.”

“Is that it?”

“No, well, most parties have some kind of entertainment like a live band or a karaoke machine. And you can almost always count on music and dancing.”

“Dancing?”

“Yes, dancing.”

“What kind of dancing?”

“I don’t know, Sherlock, it depends on the music. If it’s an upbeat song then you’d typically go for a faster kind of dancing. And for slower songs, slow dancing is the go-to.”

“So, let me get this straight, for fast-paced songs you’d use a foxtrot or a quickstep and for slower songs you’d use, say, a waltz? In that case, shouldn’t we be choreographing these dances ahead of time?”

John took a long breath and resisted the urge to do an over-the-top face-palm. 

“No,” he said with a touch of humour in his voice. “People don’t usually choreograph their dances ahead of time for parties. All you have to do is listen to the music, move with the beat, do a few simple moves, that sort of thing.”

Sherlock thought about this for a moment, looking blankly at John. “Show me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Show me the kind of simple moves that you would use at a party. It would give me a better idea of what’s expected.”

“Uh,” John faltered, rubbing the back of his neck. “I can’t just dance without any music or anything.”

“Of course not. How silly of me,” Sherlock said with a grin as he pulled his phone out of his pocket. With lightning speed, he searched the internet for a _dance party music_ playlist and clicked _play_. The flat was instantly filled with the pulsating sound of drums and electronic keyboards. “Go ahead.”

John sighed, coming to terms with the fact that he wasn’t getting out of this one. He also may have mumbled a quick “you bugger” under his breath but Sherlock was too far way to be certain. John moved to the center of the room where he was least likely to smack an elbow off a chair. He faced Sherlock reluctantly. “Alright, so I usually just start off by nodding my head to the music, getting a feel for the song I’m dancing to, like this.”

John began moving his head to the beat, nodding along at first and slowly getting more adventurous with it by letting his head sway from side to side to the rhythm. Everything about the movement looked so natural in coordination with the music that Sherlock found himself utterly lost in watching John dance. It was mesmerizing to see him that way—eyes pressed shut, head bobbing to the music, feet doing a little hopping thing that, if it were anyone but John, would look utterly ridiculous but he made it work. 

"Come on, give it a try," John called out, shaking Sherlock out of his little trance.

"That's—that's okay." Sherlock remained fixed in his position leaning against the fireplace, fully intent on watching John move along to the song for as long as possible. This plan was cut short when John shimmied over to Sherlock, took his hands in his own, and started pulling him to the middle of the room. Sherlock obliged as John dragged him forward and then set him free in the center of the room, expecting him to instantly start dancing. When Sherlock remained perfectly still, John raised an eyebrow at him. 

"Go ahead. Do what you just saw me doing."

Hesitantly, Sherlock listened closely to the music for a few seconds and then over exaggeratedly began nodding his head to the music.

John let out a little snicker and coughed to cover it up. 

"That's it. I'm not doing this."

Sherlock started stomping off in the other direction when he heard John protest. "No, no please come back. I shouldn't be laughing at you when we both know how bloody ridiculous I must look right now too."

"No," Sherlock cut John off, turning to him. "You don't look ridiculous."

John flashed Sherlock a goofy smile and gave him a disbelieving look that said, _really? You sure about that?_ Maybe it was the look John was giving him, or maybe it was the dance music that was still blaring through the flat, but Sherlock suddenly found himself unable to hold in the laughter that was bubbling inside of him. John followed suit with a burst of giggles that sent Sherlock over the edge as he found himself smiling a wide grin and strolling back over to John.

"Okay," John said with his voice still caught up in the end of a laugh. "Okay, you don't have to do my head-nodding thing. Just be yourself and do whatever comes naturally."

Sherlock thought for a moment and started to tap his foot to the music.

"That's it! That's it!" John said enthusiastically.

Sherlock's dancing progressed into an experimental shimmy of sorts as the next song began. John joined in, showing Sherlock some of his "signature moves" and Sherlock gladly copied them, finding them much more exciting than the head-bobbing. Eventually, Sherlock began to pick up some of his own moves, adding in a bit of a skipping motion here and there, and a twirl every now and then which made John laugh every time.

They found themselves sprawled out on the floor several minutes later, their chests rising and falling quickly after all of the dancing and their foreheads slick with sweat. Sherlock was already feeling the after-effects of a pulled muscle.

"That was..." John started.

"The most ridiculous thing you've ever done?"

John turned his head to the left to face Sherlock. He nodded. "Yes. And I raided Afghanistan."

Sherlock turned his face into John's shoulder and chuckled, his eyes crinkling as he grinned. He felt John laughing contently against him and suddenly Sherlock felt like he was on top of the world. The idea of this party John had been persuading him to attend no longer seemed like a chore. Hell, even having Mycroft over didn't even sound half bad. At this thought, Sherlock suddenly started to wonder if dancing caused the brain to release any euphoric hormones that could be responsible for such an outrageous thought. Nevertheless, Sherlock felt uncharacteristically overjoyed with his nose rubbing against the cotton sleeve of John's jumper as they lied down on the floor together. He closed his eyes and breathed in the scent of the sitting room, of the floorboards, of John.

Once their laughing fit had died down and a quiet, content stupor had settled over them, Sherlock instinctively brushed his fingers over John's arm and pulled it closer to him. He never thought anything of it until he felt John tense slightly at the motion. John appeared to be confused by it. And, now that Sherlock thought about it, he was too. He was basically cuddling into John's arm and he had no explanation for what had possessed him to do such a thing. He could barely remember doing it in the first place. But there he was, lying on the floor, curled into John's side with his hand draped around John's arm. John was relaxing into the touch, seemingly getting over the initial confusion.

They stayed like that for an amount of time that Sherlock had virtually lost track of, until he felt John delicately lifting Sherlock's hand off of his arm. Sherlock raised his head to meet John's eyes but his expression was unreadable. Had Sherlock crossed some type of boundary by leaning into him like that? His deductions were failing him. Possibly sensing Sherlock's uncertainty, John smiled at him for a second before pushing himself into a standing position. He stretched out his hand to help Sherlock up too.

"So, I suppose this impromptu dance lesson means you'll be going to the party this Saturday."

"Yes, I suppose it does."

***

By the time Saturday rolled around, John had spoken to Sherlock a total of three times. All brisk, meaningless chitchat, nothing like the way they had spoken to each other the day John was teaching him how to dance. Sherlock couldn’t make sense of it. One day they were laughing together like they were the only two people in the world and the next, John was giving him the cold shoulder as if he were a complete stranger. It was very odd behaviour.

Sherlock ran through many possibilities for John’s sudden silence and found that the most viable conclusion was that Sherlock had indeed crossed some kind of boundary by leaning into John while they were lying on the floor, beat out from dancing. It had been such an innocent, careless action but it seemed to be the root of whatever was wrong with John. John was perfectly fine around Mrs. Hudson, engaging her in all kinds of conversations about the lovely weather they’ve been having and the supposed snow storm they’d been calling for that afternoon. Clearly, he wanted everyone to know it was a Sherlock problem. And seeing as John was acting perfectly normal up until what Sherlock was now terming the Arm Cuddling Incident, that must be the only explanation for John’s spurt of silence.

So, there they were, sitting in the back seat of the cab on their way to the party in total, utter, absolute, maddening silence.

And Sherlock couldn’t stand another second of it.

“John.”

John deliberately turned his head to the left to direct his focus out the window. _And he says I’m the one who acts like a child_ , thought Sherlock.

Sherlock realized that he had no plan for what he would have said if John had responded to him. A simple _Why are you ignoring me?_ could do the trick but he had a feeling John wouldn’t admit to being bothered by something as simple as Sherlock holding his arm. And why _did_ that bother John so much? This was the question that had been bouncing off the walls of his Mind Palace for days now. Sherlock decided that it couldn’t have been because John was bothered by physical contact as he had hugged him just earlier that day. He wondered if he had strained John’s bad shoulder by pulling his arm unexpectedly but this was unlikely because Sherlock had been very gentle during the Arm Cuddling Incident. And a simple accident like straining John’s bad shoulder should hardly be worth a determined dose of silent treatment, should it not? 

Sherlock was puzzled. There wasn’t enough data. John was never like this. Sherlock had nothing to compare this to, no experience with an angry, quiet John Watson.

“I just,” Sherlock started, still unsure. “I just want to know why you’re—”

“We’re here.” John said quickly, unbuckling his seat belt and scrambling for money to pay the cabbie before Sherlock could finish his sentence. 

***

The party wasn't as menacing and utterly horrific as Sherlock imagined it would be. The first hour, like John had said before, consisted mainly of socializing and casual drinking which Sherlock chose not to take part in. He couldn't see the appeal of tedious pleasantries and fake congratulations being thrown about. It wasn't as if any of the members of Scotland Yard truly wished to thank him for his work. He didn't solve their cases just be nice. He helped them as a way of entertaining himself, not them. Regardless, he withstood his fair share of compliments and astonished comments referring to his accomplishment of solving one hundred cases. After the twelfth congratulatory comment, Sherlock decided it was time to check out the bar.

The party was being held in the event room of a modest hotel in Notting Hill. The room was spacious and airy and Sherlock was surprised Lestrade and the gang went through the trouble of reserving such a room. Its open-concept allowed Sherlock to purvey the room from the bar. He spotted John off to the side, standing in front of a large window, drink in hand, chatting with a woman Sherlock had not cared to notice before. John was being as distant as ever, avoiding Sherlock whenever possible, making excuses to head to the washroom or the bar whenever he sensed Sherlock was on his way to approach him. Sherlock was exasperated. Not only was John ignoring him, he was leaving him to fend for himself in a room full of people wishing to... _socialize_.

When it was announced that dinner was ready, Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief and took his seat. He busied himself with his food, picking away at the plate of chicken risotto, hoping to appear too distracted by the food to be engaged in more small talk. Thankfully, he was only interrupted once and ate the remainder of his meal in undisturbed silence.

He let his eyes travel down the table to where John was sitting with the same woman he had seen him with before. He was turned toward her, sitting at an angle with his back to Sherlock, smiling the simple, wide grin that Sherlock once considered himself to be familiar with. John was trying too hard. The woman he was with would obviously sleep with him if the opportunity presented itself. Her silver pointed-toe heels were brand new, suggesting she bought them for the occasion and that she clearly hadn't been out in a long time. She was a fan of the blog, Sherlock deduced. Too much makeup, desperate for attention, her body language displaying a clear interest in John. She was single and searching.

Sherlock resented her.

He found himself resenting John too, just because he was associating with her. She wasn't what John needed, what John deserved. She knew nothing about him. She didn't know that John used to be an army doctor, that he was a man full of compassion, that he owned more ridiculous-looking jumpers than any other man in London, that he makes an excellent cup of tea in the morning. She didn't know John Watson in the way Sherlock did. Sherlock prided himself on this fact and continued to eat his dinner in silence, keeping an inconspicuous tab on John.

***

Forty minutes after Lestrade brought out a ridiculous magnifying glass cake, that he seemed far too proud about for his own good, Sherlock found himself sitting at the bar watching from a distance as the crowd around him swayed and jumped to the music. There was no way he was going to join in on the "fun". It was so different dancing with John. The same music, perhaps. The same energy, maybe. But that experience held a more private quality that this dance floor did not offer. He couldn't imagine pulling out any of those dance moves he used with John at this party.

Lestrade plopped down on the bar stool next to him with a grunt, followed by "Sherlock, I know dancing's probably not up your alley but just give it a try for God's sake. You look like a dead fish in an aquarium." Then he addressed the bartender. "And can I get a beer?"

"No, thank you." Sherlock didn't offer Lestrade so much as a glance. His eyes were fixed on John. He had taken off the jacket of his suit and was now stepping around rhythmically and shaking his head, probably as a response to someone's question. Then, John kept moving to the beat, escalating into some of the signature moves Sherlock was more familiar with.

"Sherlock, look at me." Lestrade yelled over the music.

Sherlock obliged.

"I don't know what is up with you tonight."

"What do you mean by that?"

"Well, first of all, you're being insanely quiet, keeping all those signature sarcastic comments to yourself. It's not like you at all."

Sherlock huffed.

"Plus, you and John haven't said a word to each other all evening. And don't think I haven't noticed that you haven't taken your eyes off of him for longer than thirty seconds at a time. I'm a detective too, you know," Lestrade said with a smirk. "Don't underestimate me."

Sherlock, not having the energy to persuade Lestrade that nothing was wrong, gave him a defeated sigh. "John's not speaking to me."

"Yes, I can see that. What was it this time? It must have been pretty bad. Severed legs in the cupboards? Cockroaches between the couch cushions? Or did you finally burn down the place?"

"Nothing like that, I'm afraid."

"So, what was it?"

"I..." Sherlock thought about the best way to word it and found out there really wasn't any good way of wording it. "I cuddled him."

"You what?"

"It was accidental, of course. A conscious action, perhaps, but nothing was meant by it. However, it seems to have offended him gravely."

Lestrade downed a mouthful of beer. "Well, that's..."

"Not what you were expecting to hear? Yes, I know."

"And how did something like that happen, exactly?"

Sherlock thought briefly, taking himself back to the moment in question. "We were lying on the floor together, pressed shoulder to shoulder, what happened before that is irrelevant, but there we were, laughing together...I don't know." Sherlock shook himself into focus. "All of a sudden I had just reached out and pulled his arm toward me and curled into him without even thinking about it. It was extremely odd, looking back, but at the time it felt totally normal, like it was meant to be happening."

Lestrade seemed to be processing this until he asked, "Has anything like this happened before?"

"No, I mean, not really. Nothing like that has ever caused John to act like this. It's not making sense."

"Has he talked to you at all since it happened?"

"Only scarce comments, nothing about what happened. And, honestly, I don't even know what happened. Or why it seems to be such a big deal! People cuddle all of the time!"

"Well, Sherlock, I can't imagine that two blokes who claim to be in a purely platonic friendship cuddle all of the time." Lestrade took another long swig of beer.

"What are you suggesting?"

"Nothing in particular. All I'm saying is that maybe this little incident made John realize something he preferred not to realize."

"Do get to the point, Lestrade."

"Ah, there's the old Sherlock I remember."

"Made John realize what?"

"That he's in love with you, you bastard."

This must not have been Lestrade's first beer of the night because based on that comment alone he must have been far more drunk than Sherlock realized. It was absolutely preposterous that Lestrade could come to such a conclusion. John being in love with him? Impossible. John wasn't even gay. Or, at least he claimed that he wasn't whenever someone suggested that he was. But even if John wasn't entirely straight, there was no way he thought of Sherlock as anything more than a close friend, if that.

However, Lestrade's conclusion did have an ounce of sense to it, upon further observation. It would explain why John had been so distant since the Arm Cuddling Incident. He was most likely taking some time away from Sherlock to figure out his feelings and why Sherlock's instinctive cuddling affected him in the way it did. This was a possibility that Sherlock had not entertained before. It was intriguing to him. He'd be lying if he said he never imagined what it would be like to take a step beyond where their relationship currently stood. But he had always brushed these thoughts away, claiming they were pointless impossibilities. But now, he found himself wondering how impossible they truly were. Suddenly, he could see him and John taking that step, sharing more moments like what happened during the Arm Cuddling Incident. They had always loved each other in some form but when did that platonic love turn into something more?

"Are you alright?"

He saw Lestrade poking him out of his trance. "Fine. Completely fine."

Sherlock searched for John out on the dance floor and found him speaking with Anderson, of all people. The woman from before was nowhere to be found.

"I'm right, aren't I?" Lestrade asked with a grin.

"You just might be."

"I'd say you should go for it."

"'Go for it', as in what?"

"Go out there and get him to talk to you. Just don't scare him off."

"Oh please, I've been living with John for years. I doubt I could scare him off now."

"That's the spirit. Go get your blogger!" Lestrade raised his beer glass and chuckled at what he was saying.

Sherlock took a long, dramatic breath and pushed himself up from the stool. What was he even going to say? What was there to say? He dismissed these thoughts, deciding to worry about them after he completed the daunting task of crossing over the dance floor to where John was standing. He would worry about what happened when he got there. He launched himself through the dancing crowd and maneuvered his way to John with an inexplicable confidence he had mastered ages ago. He barely faltered when he found himself standing in front of John.

"I think we need to talk." He found himself saying.

"We can talk later." John said coolly.

"No, I think we should talk now."

"I can barely hear you over the music and the chatter. We can talk later." John said again.

"Then, let's dance."

John took a deep breath and then released it. "No," he said simply.

"And why not?"

"Sherlock," John said as if there was something Sherlock wasn't understanding. "People will talk."

"Again with that," Sherlock muttered, drowned out by the music. "I don't care," he said loudly.

"But I do."

That was it. That was the final straw that drove Sherlock into doing something that, without the coaxing of Lestrade mixed with a bit of alcohol and natural adrenaline, he would not normally do. "Well, if people would talk if we danced together, then what would they do if they saw this?"

Before anyone or anything could stop him, Sherlock took John's face in both hands and pressed their lips together. It wasn't a long kiss but it proved its point. It was quick but powerful, full of a type of desire Sherlock did not know he was even capable of. John's lips were soft against his, unresponsive at first, but slowly reciprocating before Sherlock ended the kiss. John's eyes, which went wide with shock, had shut sometime during the kiss. They opened the moment Sherlock broke the contact.

John was silent, staring into Sherlock's eyes with an equal mixture of anger and interest. His eyes flicked around the room around them. Sherlock didn't bother looking. He knew most heads were turned in their direction. John's gaze went back to Sherlock. For a moment it seemed like he was about to say something, he licked his lips, breathed deeply, gave his head a slight shake, but instead of saying anything, he turned in the opposite direction and headed for the door that led to the hotel's lobby.

"John!" Sherlock called out as John disappeared behind the crowd. When he looked around him, he saw that everyone had indeed dropped what they were doing to gawk at what had just happened. Okay, perhaps kissing John in front of everyone they worked with wasn't the best idea. Despite what he had said to Greg just a few minutes prior, he really was still capable of scaring John off.

He chased after John, pushing past the crowd until he found himself in the hotel's lobby, receiving a series of odd looks from the hotel’s staff.

"He went that way," motioned a woman at the front desk.

Sherlock breathed out a quick _thank you_ and made his way towards the main entrance to the hotel, where the woman at the front desk had pointed.

He found John standing near the street, raising his arm to hail a cab.

"John. Just...wait, will you?" Sherlock rushed to where John was standing. "We really do need to talk."

John just shook his head, a dry, humourless laugh escaping his lips. "Oh yeah, you're certainly right about that."

Sherlock opened his mouth, perfectly ready to explain what was on his mind but John cut him off before he had the chance to start.

"You just...just kissed me in front of everyone we know with no warning, nothing. Sherlock, what on earth were you thinking with that one?"

Again, before Sherlock had the chance to cut in, John started again. "No, never mind, I don't want to hear it. Just another one of your stupid, bloody plans to make things more interesting, am I right? God, Sherlock..."

"That's not what I meant by it, really, it was—"

"No, just stop. Really, stop." John covered his face with both hands, probably unable to believe he was having this conversation with his flatmate. "You're always doing things like that."

"No, I'm not. That was the first time I kissed you."

"I meant you're always doing things that make people think we're a couple. Always. And I'm always the one who has to tell people we're not. You never say a bloody thing! You just leave it to me to set things straight."

"Well, you don't always have to correct them. Why is it such a problem if a random waiter at a restaurant or a random fan of your blog believes we're in a relationship?"

"Because we're not!" John yelled.

"And why is that?" Sherlock retorted, locking his eyes onto John's with a fierce intensity.

These words seemed to have stunned John. He returned Sherlock's gaze with a nervous uncertainty and eventually flicked his eyes down to the pavement beneath him, fleeing Sherlock's eyes as he came up with something to say. "You know I'm not gay," he settled with. "And I know you consider yourself to be 'married to your work' and all that."

"Well, I think I could make an exception for you. If you would do so for me, that is."

John eyes softened as he took in the weight of these words. He had lost the persistent anger that had driven him out of the hotel and he regarded Sherlock with a gentle type of astonishment. John took a step back, shoved his hands in his pockets and took a long, steadying breath. "It's about time I start being honest with you. And with myself."

Sherlock held his breath as he waited for John to continue.

"Since the beginning, I've felt this pull towards you, Sherlock. My life was so ordinary before I met you and then suddenly, there you were, bringing me into this wildly exciting life of crime-solving and criminal-chasing and I just couldn't get enough of it. I told myself that it was nothing more than a desire for a bit of danger in my life but now I know better." John paused, closing his eyes and taking another long breath. "Christ, this is hard to say out loud. Sherlock, it wasn't the danger I was drawn to. It was you. It's always been you. And I've been brushing it off for so long, coming up with excuses, ignoring whatever it was that I've always felt for you but...I can't do it anymore."

Sherlock took a tentative step towards John and pulled him into his arms. John closed the distance and melted into Sherlock's embrace. It felt like the most natural thing in the world. Sherlock found himself completely unconcerned by the fact that they were hugging in the middle of a cramped sidewalk in Notting Hill just outside the entrance of a hotel that people were bound to come in and out of. It didn't matter a bit to him. Even John didn't seem to care. That was a first.

Sherlock ran his hands along John's back and settled his right hand into the short hairs at the back of John's neck. He felt John's grip on his shoulders tighten and he clung to him.

"And then the other day," John continued, "when we were lying down on the floor in the sitting room and you just pulled my arm towards you, it did something to me, it dug up feelings that I thought I had pushed away long ago and I didn't know what to do."

"So, you decided to ignore me for several days?" Sherlock joked lightly.

John smiled against Sherlock's shoulder. "Yeah, uh, sorry about that, by the way. I wanted to talk to you. I wanted to tell you all of this, but I couldn't figure out how. I spent the last few days trying to convince myself I wasn't attracted to you and it was just my mind playing tricks on me and that I was still the same old heterosexual bloke I've always thought I was."

"So, that's why you spent the whole evening chatting up that woman with the obnoxious makeup instead of me?"

"Well, I wouldn't call her makeup 'obnoxious' but yes, you're right. But, look, it made me realize something. I could have definitely went home with her under different circumstances but I didn't want to. I'm certain that I'm not gay, but Sherlock, I would be willing, more than willing, to make an exception for you."

"John," Sherlock smiled, John's name being the only word he could manage at the moment.

John pulled back a bit to look Sherlock in the eye. "Do you mind if we give that first kiss another try?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and whispered into the air between them: "Go ahead."

He felt John's fingers ghosting over his jaw and tiptoeing up to a spot just behind his ear. John's lips came next, brushing against his chin at first and then reaching up to capture Sherlock's mouth with his own. It was tender, chaste, soft, full of something Sherlock dared to describe as love. Because what they had truly was love, even if it took them so long to realize it.

Sherlock sighed into the kiss, deepening it as he took John's face in his hands. Their mouths moved in unison as one kiss merged into the next. Sherlock lost himself in the sublime sensation of John's lips and tongue pressing against his and found himself unable to think of anything but the man in front of him.

They broke apart hesitantly, inching back bit by bit only to find themselves unable to resist the urge to press a final kiss to the other person's mouth.

"I love the way your whole face crinkles up when you smile." John said happily.

Sherlock couldn't help but widen his smile, lacing his hands at the small of John's back.

"And I love these cheekbones..." John trailed off as he pressed his lips to either side of Sherlock's face.

"I love you," Sherlock said softly.

John grinned up at him. "And I love you too, you idiot."

"Idiot?" Sherlock teased. "I thought you thought I was brilliant. I just solved one hundred cases, for Christ's sake, what more do you want?"

John giggled. "You are brilliant. You're just too brilliant for your own good, which makes you an idiot."

"I'm not sure I agree with that logic."

"Oh, just come here, you." John captured Sherlock's face in his hands and joined their lips together in another demanding kiss that left Sherlock utterly breathless. Their hands tangled around each other as they kissed. Sherlock realized there was nowhere else he'd rather be.

"Oi, you two," Sherlock heard the familiar voice of Greg Lestrade call out. "There's a hotel right here. Get a room!"

He and John flicked around to find what appeared to be the entirety of Scotland Yard crowded around the glass doors of the hotel's entrance watching the scene play out. Sherlock shot them one of his classic looks of annoyance and watched as Lestrade gathered everyone back inside like sheep. He noticed a couple people flashing them some thumbs-ups through the glass doors.

Sherlock pressed another greedy kiss to John's lips and he heard a holler coming from someone inside who was still looking out from the door. They both laughed.

"I suppose we won't ever hear the end of this." John said after everyone had finally moved away from the hotel's entrance.

Sherlock gave John a playful eye roll. "I imagine they'll be bringing it up until the party that celebrates the one thousandth case I solve for them, unfortunately."

"Look up," John said suddenly, directing his attention to the sky above them. Sherlock couldn't figure out what John was looking at for a moment, not until he saw a handful of snowflakes travelling through the air. The handful turned into bucketfuls as they gazed at the dark sky together.

"That was supposed to start five hours ago," Sherlock remarked, feeling the light flakes blowing around them.

"Well, better late than never." John said, meeting Sherlock's gaze with a knowing smile.

The wind picked up after a moment, awakening them from their peaceful trance. "We should go back inside," Sherlock said.

"To book a room or to catch the end of the party?"

Sherlock chuckled. "It's up to you. Although, I wouldn't mind finally showing off some of those dance moves you taught me."

John laughed, pressing his lips to Sherlock's cheek and then he took Sherlock's hand in his own, guiding him in the direction of the hotel.

"I've realized something." Sherlock said as they reached the hotel's glass doors.

"And what would that be?"

"That I love parties."

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!


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